


The Value of a Good Education

by Lokei



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-27
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokei/pseuds/Lokei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doesn’t know a head from a halyard?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Value of a Good Education

“So you’re to join the Navy, then?” The schoolmaster said. “A hard life, that—harder than university.”

There was not much Horatio could say to that. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

“I must confess I’m disappointed. Your heart may not be in your Catullus, but you have a rare head for strategy and the fine points of mathematics. You might have gone far as a scholar.”

The rueful embarrassment which flickered so quickly over Hornblower’s face lingered freshly in his mind long after as he endeavored to explain the financial affairs which necessitated a career which bore more immediate fruit than the life of a scholar suggested.

The schoolmaster, more perceptive than the thickness of his spectacles would suggest, waved off explanation and embarrassment as a mere trifle, handing over a large parcel by way of changing the subject.

“What is this, sir?” Hornblower, all gangly limbs and hands he had not yet quite grown into, was suddenly alive with concerted curiosity. One might even be forgiven for supposing he had never received a present before.

“Well, open it and find out, young man,” the master said with mock asperity. It was perhaps the last time he might employ such a tone with young Hornblower—in the ranks of the Navy, creatures like Horatio either rose young or died young. In the first case, his former student would be a tried and confident officer who would require respect. In the second, respects could be paid only over a cenotaph.

While the schoolmaster was occupied with such gloomy thoughts, Hornblower’s deft fingers had unwrapped the glorious brown paper parcel and now were running reverently over the deep blue binding.

“ _Clarke’s Seamanship_ , sir?”

“Strategy, Mister Hornblower, and good scholarship. Never go into a situation without doing your research.”

Hornblower’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “I believe in the Navy it is called ‘reconnaissance,’ sir.”

“You can call it ‘bedtime reading’ for all I care,” the schoolmaster retorted, “but don’t you dare disgrace this school or the habits I’ve taught you when you set foot on that boat.”

Horatio flushed. “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

The schoolmaster gave a half-smile. “Very well, then. This ship of yours have a name, Mr. Midshipman Hornblower?”

The youth stood taller under the title and gave what he imagined to be a Naval officer’s nod. “Yes, sir. The _Justinian_.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Staring at the timbers over his head and trying to separate his own internal groans of distress from those of the beams around him, that same youth was beginning to realize that _Clarke’s Seamanship_ was going to be as much of a disappointment to him as he must be to his father and to the schoolmaster at this moment.

He closed his eyes, hoping to be rid of the spectral swaying of the empty hammocks to either side of him, and succeeding only slightly better than he was at ridding his mind of the taunts of his fellow midshipmen.

 _“You should have started when you were twelve.”_

 _“Bet he doesn’t know a head from a halyard.”_

He could do nothing about the first. He had been in school at age 12, struggling with declensions and conjugations like any other boy in his class, not fretting over knots and splices and yards and yards of billowing canvas on a soggy blustery afternoon.

It was the second that still rankled, however. He had read his manual cover to cover within days of the schoolmaster’s present to him, and knew the difference perfectly well. Had no intention or inclination to foul them up, either. But somehow even in the roilings of nausea and new parameters, Horatio knew better than to make a point of it on his first day. He would prove himself—had to, or be labeled a landlubber the rest of his career.

If he hadn’t done that already by losing his scanty lunch all over the floor in the first place.

 _Deck_ , he reminded himself sternly. _Lost my lunch on the deck._

That he could remember the proper vocabulary was scant comfort as the mere memory of his gallant first impression overwhelmed him and he curled up beneath the damp blanket in pre-retching agony.

Sometime later Horatio dared to open his eyes again as the bells rang above deck and the scuffle of feet suggested the entire weight of the ship was standing over his head. Feeling the motion of the ship slightly lessened, he dared to sit up and even attempt coat and shoes.

More scuffling over head, and a whistle now. A common sailor scuttled past and Horatio decided to attempt to voice his new-found steadiness. “You there! Which way to the head?”

Proud he had used the correct term, Horatio ignored the look of incredulity the grizzled sailor directed at him for not knowing such a simple necessity. He made his way there and back again, and then clambered forward to what he hoped were the stairs to the main deck. Shouting and more pipes suggested that he really ought to be up there, if only he could be sure of his direction below decks.

Throwing himself up a staircase, he blessed whatever lares and penates the old schoolmaster had bade look after him in the Roman fashion, for he found himself just behind the row of other midshipmen, drawn up to attend the arrival of the captain. Brushing himself down hastily, he skated into line beside the red-blond one who had greeted him on arrival—Kennedy? And he pulled himself to attention, realizing that this would be part of his routine for the next many years if he were lucky. One part of his mind was busy chiding himself for his late arrival, his confusion, his fear, and the other was noticing the stiff way the captain moved, the attention of the officers contrasted with the sloppiness of the hands, the very way the air seemed to slow and congeal as the captain passed.

Captain Keene caught his eye and looked him over sharply, nodded once, and turned away. Horatio heaved an inward sigh of relief. Perhaps the transition from landlubber to proper Naval man would be easier than he feared.

Provided, of course, he could remember the difference between the stern and the stun’sail. Perhaps he’d better go look it up again.


End file.
